A Burning He Can't Escape
by Tackles
Summary: He likes to look at her. Look at her until she looks away, and then take it as a victory; proof that she can not stomach him for all her pretending at being brave. Sansa decides then not to award him any more victories. Not against her, at least. [Sansa Stark/Sandor Clegane][AU]
1. Chapter 1

**A Burning He Can't Escape, Chapter One**

The first thing he makes her do is cut and dye her hair.

In the safety of a nameless old inn off the Roseroad the Hound shears off the rich, auburn curls of which Sansa was once so proud, using the dagger he keeps in his boot. He cuts her hair close to her chin. His hands are rough and seem to pluck more than they cut. She is terrified that he'll slip and slice her on accident, but he is steady and relatively gentle. Other than the fright of being bent over with a knife near her face, Sansa is no worse for wear by the time he is done. This time, he doesn't even ask for a song before hiding the knife away again. The dye he rubs into her scalp with big, forceful fingers, more interested in being thorough than being careful with her or her clothing. Her head tingles all over when he finishes and her favorite purple dress is splattered with thick black drops.

_It looks like blood,_ she thinks, when she sees herself in the glass. Like the blood on the Hound's white cloak when he came to her that night, green fire in the sky and wine on his breath.

It is too late to have trepidations about coming with him, she knows. He will only mock her if she voices any reservations now. _Should have thought of that before, little bird_, she can hear him saying. Seeing her face unadorned by her usual fiery hair, however, makes her tummy feel queer. Not with dread, but with something poignant all the same. Regret, she supposes, although she should be saturated with enough by now to be immune to the feeling. A thrill of excitement also buzzes beneath the surface of her skin, but it is faint, hardly daring to hope that this might be the road to true freedom. She has been liberated of more than her hair, if she can trust the Hound.

"I look like a boy," she comments in barely more than a whisper.

"You don't," growls the Hound, with a pointed nod at her breasts before he returns to the business of scooping up all her hair into a neat pile. "But it'll serve for now."

In the morning, he swaddles her in a brown cloak that must be his. It all but engulfs her, and covers her newly-cropped hair. Surely now she'll look like a boy, she thinks. Everything remotely womanly about her is swallowed in fabric. The Hound seems satisfied enough, at least. They leave before anyone wakes, so early that everything is gray, even the grass beneath their feet. Sansa stares at the sky and wonders where all the fire went.

They set off, the Hound on his great black horse and Sansa on a little yellow gelding they stole from the royal stables, which Stranger nips into submission every time he tries to surpass him on the road. Resigned, Sansa's horse carries her just behind the Hound's own. She watches his hulking frame rock side to side with surprising fluidity and tries to think of what they would talk about, were they within speaking distance. Given that nothing comes to mind, it is likely for the best that there is a stretch of road and only the sound of clinking mail between their mounts.

She doesn't know where they are going when they turn off the main road, but she is sure that it is North, not South that they ride. The Hound is keeping his promise to take her home, she hopes, but she does not truly mind where they go now, so long as it is away from King's Landing, Joffrey, and the queen. The idea that she might see her family again... it is too much for her to bear. It is too painful to think of her mother's face, or her young brothers', or Robb's. It seems a lifetime since she went to King's Landing, and that was a lifetime of stamping out girlish hopes. She cannot easily pick them up again, it seems.

Sansa is content to ride in silence, and she knows the Hound is also. He was never fond of her tittering. She has many thoughts to occupy her, and no need to put them to words.

Their path grows harder as the sun climbs higher. They are taking no marked road, but Sansa does not question the Hound, partly for trusting him and partly for fearing him. Trees bar their way, but they are not so thick that they are forced to dismount. They must only tread slowly over the steep places. Around midday, they stop to lead their horses to water and let them drink. The brook they find is in a clearing Sansa might have named beautiful, if her mind were not otherwise occupied. As they get further from King's Landing, she grows less afraid that this will prove to be a terrible trap. Questions have been forming on the back of her tongue for some distance now.

"Ser," she tries, forgetting that he hates the name.

He is wiping his brow with a cloth dripping with brook water. He stops to fix her with a familiar glare and she remembers his distaste for knights and her fairy-tales. He is only in a mood for her stories and songs when drunk, and full of fear. He is not afraid of her though, only fire, and there is none here now to gentle him.

His voice is harsh and gravelly. "I'm no ser, little bird, nor a lord. How many times must I tell you so before it gets into your pretty little head?"

Sansa's wide, blue eyes fixate on his leather boots. "I'm sorry."

The Hound's face when she dares to glance back up tells her what he thinks of her apologies, and he doesn't hold them in any higher regard than her courtesies. He proceeds to wipe the sweat from the nape of his neck with the same cloth, then cracks the joints in his fingers. When that is done, he begins to tend to his horse. Stranger is still thirstily drinking his fill from the brook, but he is amicable when the Hound begins to brush him. Sansa should take the same care for her gelding, she knows, but she will have to wait for the brush and besides, she is somewhat irritated with the silly creature's behavior. Not to mention she's only used to riding for pleasure, not racing for freedom. Her thighs are aching sweetly and she can either blame the horse or the Hound. She chooses the one which seems to care the most.

Walking painfully, she stands at the edge of the water. She almost cries when she catches a glimpse of her reflection. Every curve of her is swallowed beneath trappings and heavy wool. Her sadness is not for the auburn curls that no longer snag her shoulders when the wind blows, nor for the pale skin hidden beneath drab clothes. It is for the Sansa Stark who once looked with pride upon her budding breasts in the mirror and thought about holding princely babies against them, and about how one day a valorous knight might count himself blessed to look upon her woman's body with her permission. She can't imagine that anyone who passes her now will give her a second glance, if they even realize she is a girl beneath her rags. But the Sansa Stark that wanted them to is dead; the things she once thought important dashed away. She knows what a knight's honor is really worth, just as well as the Hound does.

"Do you not wish for me to think of you..." Sansa's boldness fails her when she thinks of Ser Meryn. "As- as being like them?"

The Hound jerks away from Stranger so quickly that the horse snorts, and Sansa's gelding startles. Sansa herself jumps, though the Hound looks more amused than angry. A smirk distorts his already ruined face.

"I am just like them, girl," he tells her, sneering when she looks away again. "The difference between us is that I admit it. You should too, before you say anything else stupid. Wipe away those tears, little bird, we've a long enough ride without you weeping the whole way."

Sansa rubs her eyes, frustrated to find that they are indeed moist. He is not like Ser Meryn, though she can not tell him so without him arguing. He is no knight, but the Hound saved her. Or he will. He _must_.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Burning He Can't Escape, Chapter Two**

The Hound drinks enough wine to drown his horse that night, Sansa thinks, but she wisely says nothing.

Worse yet, he refuses to light a fire when they camp, leaving her to shiver through the long hours until the sun peaks over the horizon. She barely sleeps and, as a consequence, she almost falls off her saddle several times the next morning. Eventually, the Hound grows tired of her swaying and seats her roughly on top of Stranger. He hitches their horses together and mounts up behind her. Sansa is trapped on either side by one of his large arms, her head bouncing beneath his chin with every step Stranger takes. Even then, she does not think to complain, not about the undignified position or the fact that it's his fault she is exhausted. Instead, she falls asleep against his chest, and he does not disturb her until midday, when they water the horses. He stands pensively beside Stranger, watching his horse drink in silence.

Though Sansa's legs are jelly after sleeping during the ride, her mind is clearer. Some more of her fear slipped away during her rest, and she actually finds herself smiling as she brushes her mount. She has quite forgiven him for his behavior, and the Hound for his as well. The gelding still needs a name. Her first thought is_ Lady_ but it's hardly a fitting name for a male horse and besides, she is worried the Hound will mock her for it. She'll have to think long and hard before she finds a name suitable for the mount that bore her to freedom, one that even the Hound can't roll his eyes at.

Then again, she was sure that the Hound would mock her for her inability to ride this morning, as well as for sleeping half of the day away. Instead, he remains silent. Sansa approaches tentatively to kneel by his feet and gather some water into her palms, which she drinks.

"Wouldn't you rather have some wine?" The Hound is watching her with a curious expression on his scarred face.

"We'll run out at this rate," says Sansa without thinking.

The Hound actually laughs at that, a raspy sound but pleasant to hear nonetheless. Other than Joffrey's, Sansa has not heard laughter in a while, and none without a trace of scorn. She is relieved he did not take offense.

"Turn your nose up at it then, can't blame you. I only had pisswater to bring anyway," the Hound tells her, with a shrug that indicates he does not care either way.

"Why did you name your horse Stranger?" Sansa asks, studying the great black beast.

"Because death's the only god I care to get acquainted with," the Hound tells her. "But not before my brother does."

Sansa knows that he likes to kill, or at least that it is sweetest among the Lannister's tasks for him. The Hound finds true joy in nothing, as far as Sansa knows, and she can understand. Her time at King's Landing taught her to forge her own armor for similar reasons, perhaps, though she does not like to dwell overly long on similarities between her and her grudging rescuer.

"I thought you did not keep faith with the Seven," Sansa asks.

"I've never seen the Father reach his great bloody hand down from the heavens to smite the wicked but I have seen death, little bird. I do believe in that."

She cannot watch him grin at that, it makes her shudder. She cannot decide if he says these things because he believes they are right or because he likes to see her flinch. They mount up when the horses are sated and have stopped steaming with sweat. Without asking, the Hound lifts her onto Stranger, though she feels well enough to ride alone. She says nothing because it is relieving to let him take control of their journey while she relaxes. The Hound smells musky and masculine, and his arms are strongly muscled. Sansa cannot help but let herself enjoy the scent and feel of a man behind her, even if it is a foolish whim. The Hound might frighten her with his garish face and blunt tongue, but there is also something refreshing about his honesty. At the very least, she trusts him.

She has never been pressed up against a man this close before. No sooner does she realize it than her face goes flaming red. The rhythmic bobbing of the horse does nothing to alleviate the strange pressure suddenly gathering in her stomach. The Hound, at least, cannot see her face or guess the thoughts in her head. She forces herself to focus on the road.

After a long time of riding at the same pace, when Sansa has finally calmed her girlish nerves, the Hound puts his lips to her ear and his hand flat to her belly. Sansa's breath catches in her throat.

"I've missed that sweet smell of yours," the Hound hisses, his lips brushing her bare skin.

His voice drips like melting gold through her body. When they stop to make camp that night and she slides off of Stranger's back, she wonders if she dreamed the words and the touches. Deciding she must have, she helps the Hound lay down blankets for sleeping and convinces him that they will need a fire tonight, to make a soup out of the vegetables he brought from the inn. While he boils water over a fire he is clearly wary of, Sansa bathes in the stream they took from. Washing away the dirt of the road wakes her fully. She is careful not to scrub too hard at her hair, lest the weak dye be washed out of it. With shame, she also lowers her hand between her thighs and lets the water help her wash away the wetness that came during her dream. It _must_ have been a dream.

After a bland supper of watery soup, she curls up gratefully by the fire while the Hound makes himself comfortable against a tree, a good distance away. He drinks until he's swaying, and he reminds her of the night he stole her away from King's Landing. The firelight reflected in his eyes makes her certain he is looking at her, but she cannot look back.

"Why did you come with me?" he growls drunkenly at her, at last.

"I don't know," she says, stunned at her own boldness. "Why did you ask me to?"

"Because I was bloody sick of your whimpering," he says coldly. "And I had myself too much wine."

Sansa thinks he simply saw her reflected in him, just like the firelight. While she bears no scars like the Hound's, Joffrey burned her and burned her while Clegane watched, and she knows him well enough now to know that he can not stomach such a thing without acting.

"Perhaps you should not drink so much then, ser," she suggests tonelessly.

"Fuck all that ser business," he responds, before rolling away and pretending to sleep until he really does.

After a whole day of sleeping on and off, Sansa finds it very easy to succumb again once she cocoons herself in blankets.

In her dreams, the sky is alive with green fire and the Hound is holding a dagger to her neck. She gives him a song and he takes a kiss as well, prying her lips apart. He uses his tongue to kiss her in a way that she and Jeyne Poole only ever talked about in hushed voices, giggling like girls. She lets him. She puts her hands in his messy hair and all over his ruined face. When she wakes up, she knows she not only dreamed the kiss, but the words and lips on her ear as well.

The Hound has taken nothing from her. It should please her, but it only leaves her wanting.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Burning He Can't Escape, Chapter Three**

_(This chapter has some rearranged canonical dialogue.)  
_

They know her for a girl, but not for Sansa Stark.

The Hound dresses her in such clothes as to hide her breasts and womanly curves, but Sansa's features are too delicate, her eyelashes too long and dark, and her lips too pink and full to fool anyone up close. The men sharing the tavern with them are overly friendly, but Sansa is afraid to shoo them away, lest her protests draw even more attention. She is just a girl in a tavern with her father, but the Hound, sitting across from her with his face turned toward the window, has a scar that tells a thousand tales all down the hidden side of his face. Unless he has to, he won't turn to her now and expose himself.

It was dangerous to come here and not stay on the road, but they needed provisions, and Sansa argued that if they were to be here anyway, one night in a proper bed would not be amiss. The Hound had scoffed at her for that, and now she regrets her petulance over the matter.

One of the three who have settled in around her is a bard of sorts. He possesses a lute, at least, though Sansa can't say for sure he has any skill on it. So far, he has only promised her songs and not plucked a single note. She is used to royal performances, and doubts she will be all as impressed with his song-playing as he thinks. From what she can see of the Hound's face, he is inclined to agree. All night, the men have been plaguing her with forward compliments and bawdy jokes, and the Hound's mood has soured progressively. They are still waiting for the nice pig meat the innkeep promised to bring them, and the potatoes and wine.

"Your eyes, sweet girl, are as blue as sapphires," flatters the bard, to which Sansa can only smile helplessly. "More blue and beautiful than the waters of Tarth."

The attention is doubly unwanted, given how scared she is that someone will recognize her. Even if she weren't trying to run, she would not be so easily swayed by sweet words. Perhaps, once upon a time, she would have been genuinely flattered. The bard is comely. She might have tittered with Jeyne about his handsome face and skilled fingers, laughing wickedly over girlish fantasies. Now his words seem hollow. He says them to all the girls, she knows. Words are wind. The Hound taught her to be more prudent about believing them. She finds herself just as annoyed as he is at the insincerity of the men.

"They are only eyes," she tells him, hoping to sound modest instead of merely disinterested.

The Hound cracks a smile at that, and it warms her to see it.

"Perhaps," the bard persists, "but they are your eyes, sweet girl. Can't I know your name? I'll give you a song if I can only have your name."

"Forgive me, good sirs, but my father and I are weary from the road and we would only like to rest."

"He doesn't mind, do you, old man?" pipes up one of the other men, the less comely one with crooked teeth and peach fuzz that makes the hair on the Hound's good side seem like a forest.

So far, the third man has been somewhat quiet, content to watch his friends beleaguer Sansa. "I'd pay 'im a gold dragon to know her name, but only if she screams mine tonight."

"You forget yourself," Sansa gasps, but her voice is drowned out by the slam of the Hound's hand on the table.

The Hound too, it seems, has forgotten himself. His scars are cast into the light now as he stares down the man who offered him a dragon, his face twisted in anger. Sansa almost whimpers in fright, cringing not away from the man but away from the Hound, in his fury. She cannot bear to look at him with his eyes on fire like that. She is afraid now that the game is up, that they are caught. Surely he wouldn't risk getting sent back now?

"Take your gold and your lute and bugger off before I give them a new home right up your arse," he rasps.

The singer and his crook-toothed friend both scrambled away, abandoning the game. The third man, however, begins to smile. Sansa's heart sinks when she sees, and even the Hound's eyes flick toward her briefly, a glint of worry in them.

"Sandor Clegane," the man breathes. "I'd wager your head's worth a big sack of golden dragons... more than enough to pay for a good fuck with a traitor's daughter."

The look he gives Sansa makes her feel filthy. The Hound roars and jumps toward the man, both his hands locking around his neck. Sansa screams and scrambles over the table, almost falling on her face on the wooden floor. She cowers behind the Hound, her heart pounding and tears flooding her eyes. She doesn't want to watch him kill someone. More than that, though, she can never, ever return to King's Landing. To Joffrey and his cruel mother and Ser Meryn. She begins to shake, and she almost doesn't see the singer lunge for a torch and shove it toward the Hound's face.

"Look out!" she screams in terror, in time for the Hound to leap away.

In a flash, his sword is unsheathed and in his hands. He runs the dragon man through right there on the ground, and Sansa nearly screams again. So much blood pours out of him. She covers her mouth and backs away, equally terrified of what the Hound will do and what might be done to him. She knows how much he fears fire, and now the singer is brandishing the torch near his face, close enough that he is sweating. In one deft movement, he knocks the torch aside and takes the head off of the second man, the one with the peach fuzz, but only after the man manages to plunge a dagger into the Hound's thigh. The Hound roars in pain, rounding on the singer again. Sansa closes her eyes, the blood rushing in her ears.

"We have to run," she whimpers. "We should run."

The singer puts the torch right to the Hound's arm when he thrusts in. The Hound's sword skewers him right through the belly as his sleeve goes up in flames. Panicked, the Hound recoils, spinning to face her, his eyes wider than she has ever seen. Whatever fear she saw in him during the night they left, it is nothing compared to what has overtaken him now. With a start, she realizes that the sheen on his face is not only sweet, but tears. _Like a child,_ she thinks, detached.

"Help me," he begs her. "I'm burning. Help me, please. _Please_."

That finally spurs Sansa back into motion. She pats out the fire with quick hands, burning herself in the process. There should be pain, she knows, but all she feels is horror and she keeps slapping at the flames until they die under her hands. The Hound is panting like an aurochs, clutching his wounded leg in one hand and trying to hide his face in the other. He staggers forward and almost falls, and Sansa's heart shoots into her throat._ He can't die here. He can't!_

Three other men have though, she realizes. They have to run, now, before anyone finds out what happened. Feeling sick to her stomach, she wrenches the Hound's sword from the singer's belly. It's so heavy she has to drag it, as heavy as her little sister it seems. The Hound at least has the sense to take it from her, though his hand is shaking mightily. Sansa guides him out the door and manages to help him saddle and mount Stranger, then she ties the horse to her own, nearly earning herself a solid bite on the hand.

She doesn't know which direction to run, but she can at least avoid where they came from. She spurs her gelding toward the woods, not thinking about how the Hound is slumped on Stranger's back and unmoving as a rock.


	4. Chapter 4

**A Burning He Can't Escape, Chapter Four**

She stops them in a clearing where the ground is soft and muddy. Night noises sound all around them, but Sansa can barely hear them over the beating of her own heart. The Hound all but collapses when he slides off of Stranger's back, sending a fresh wave of panic through Sansa's chest.

"Oh, please, please don't die," she breathes, rushing over to guide him to the ground. "Please don't leave me here alone."

"I'm not bloody dying. Stop your chirping," the Hound's voice is croaky and weak.

He winces when she tries to move his leg so she lets him lie as he's fallen, on the ground with no blankets. She pulls off his vambrace and rolls up his sleeve as gently as she can to see how badly he's been burned. His face is still the worst of his wounds, but the flesh of his left forearm is pink and tender. He sucks in a deep breath and curses when she touches it, though she is as ginger as can be. The dagger is still in his thigh. Sansa takes three deep breaths and wrests it free. That _does_ make the Hound howl. He nearly crushes her shoulder, he grabs her so tight.

"It's okay," she whimpers, though she isn't sure whom she is addressing. "It's okay, it's okay."

"Bugger that," the Hound says back, gritting his teeth and tilting back his head. The muscles in his neck stand out starkly.

Sansa undoes the laces on his breeches and pulls them down enough to expose his wound. They are ruined with blood. She does not think about his bare skin, of course, too mortified by the wound on his thigh to pay any mind to the rest of him. Neither is he concerned with modesty. He tries hard to lie still while Sansa inspects his leg. She doesn't know what to do and she tells the Hound as much in a tremulous, wavering voice.

"Wrap it," he instructs. "It's not so bad, girl, just find some cloth and wrap it around."

The Hound is such a big man and his thigh is muscular, thick. Sansa rummages in her things for the stained cloak he gave her the night they left and almost tears it, but something in her heart stops her. Instead, she mangles the purple dress she was wearing the night they cut her hair. It is covered in stains anyway. Using the dagger she pulled from the Hound's leg, she makes one long, ragged strip. She ties the makeshift bandage tight around the Hound's leg, obeying his hissed instructions.

He is still covered in sweat. Gently, she dabs his forehead with a cloth, drying him. After a moment, he grabs her hard by the wrist and tells her to stop and to breathe.

"I thought you were going to die," she tells him shakily.

"Were you going to cry for me, little bird?" The Hound has the audacity to laugh at her.

"Yes," she answers softly.

He does not sit up, but he does turn his head to look at her. Even now, she cannot look back. She is utterly ashamed of how useless she's been. He is not so badly hurt as all that, but seeing his blood, seeing his _tears_... she panicked. Sansa does not know where they are, nor how to get to her mother and Robb from here. Only the Hound knows that. If he dies or leaves her, she will be alone. She will die, she knows that now. Still, it is the thought of having to look upon him, having to see his lifeless body, that chills her heart. Joffrey's dog might be many things, but not deserving of death. Not because of her, a silly girl who cannot keep her mouth shut.

He was _crying_, before. She presses her lips tight together and tries not to do the same. He was crying that night, too, when he came to take her away. Or had she dreamed that, and the kiss? Was it all a dream?

"Stop that," the Hound tells her with an annoyed grunt. "There's no one alive to tell what they saw. You're safe. I'm not dying anytime soon, so you haven't lost your guide, little bird."

"I don't care about that," Sansa says. "You... you are a good man. The only person who has tried to help me. If you died, I would... would..."

His eyes go cold. "Did I ask for your pity, little bird? Save your warbling for those who want to hear your pretty songs."

_He thinks of me as I thought of them_, Sansa realizes, recalling the empty words of the singer and his dead friends. _As if I'm saying nothing of any worth. As if I am saying what he thinks I want him to hear._

It should offend and upset her, but it doesn't. Instead, it makes her think about whether or not she is really being honest. Yes, she does think the Hound is a good man. Ser Dontos offered to help her escape too, but Ser Dontos also demanded her kisses. Ser Meryn wore a white cape too, but Ser Meryn drove the hilt of his sword into her hard enough to take her breath away when Joffrey commanded it. The Hound had only ever asked her for a song, and he had promised to protect her. She had looked on him as a monster once. She wasn't certain she had been wrong, but certainly he was not the only one and _not_ the worst of them.

"I'm being honest with you," she tells him, unsure of what he will believe.

He finds the strength to sit upright, wincing and prodding at his leg. "You're being courteous with me. I never needed highborn courtesy before and I don't need it now, in the middle of the bloody wilderness with no one around but you and me."

"Then I shall say something discourteous," Sansa says, her eyebrows lowering and her mouth tightening. "You almost got yourself killed back there, and it was stupid."

The Hound laughs at that, perhaps not as riotously as he'd like to, with the pain. "Some buggering honesty at last. Shouldn't a knight be expected to die defending a lady's honor?"

"Yes," Sansa agrees. "So why did _you_ try it?"

"Maybe I'm just saving your cunt for myself," the Hound growls irritably, his eyes burning holes into her.

It should frighten her. She knows he means it to. She has struck a nerve in him and now his rage will swallow him up and cover whatever part of him he feels she's discovered. The part that cries, perhaps, at fire or the tenderness of a song. Sansa's armor in King's Landing was stupidity and the Hound's was always anger. She wonders why he keeps pushing her to abandon hers when he still clings to his. She won't pity him, because he told her not to.

His words don't do what they were meant to anyway. Instead of fear, longing coils in her gut. The Hound's eyes don't leave hers, still afire with rage. He likes to look at her. Look at her until she looks away, and then take it as a victory; proof that she can not stomach him for all her pretending at being brave. Sansa decides then not to award him any more victories. Not against her, at the least.

"Finally taking your look?" he asks after a collection of seconds wherein neither of them break eye contact.

_Yes,_ she thinks with a defiant thrill. He is not ugly. She has seen ugliness.

"Get some rest, little bird," he tells her. "We'll move as soon as we can."


	5. Chapter 5

**A Burning He Can't Escape, Chapter Five**

The Hound does not sleep, but Sansa does. All of the worrying and running has left her exhausted. The ground is hard and uncomfortable underneath her, but she convinces herself that a bed at the inn would not have been all that much better. She is not a lady anymore. It's beds as hard as iron and covered in fleas for her. The Hound told her as much before the singer and his friends came.

She dreams again that night. The sky over King's Landing is afire and her room is glowing as green as an emerald. Everything is too vivid to be real but Sansa does not wake up, even after she realizes it is a dream. The Hound wraps her up in his blood-stained cloak. He is burning as well. Tendrils of orange and green lick up his arms and his shoulders. They caress his face. Sansa's bed is a bed of flames. He bears down on her until she is on her back and the fire is all around her. He kisses her on her lips and her neck, and she is fire too.

She wakes up desperately hungry and wrapped in a blood-stained cloak, with her hands stinging from their burns. Sitting up in confusion, she realizes that the Hound is nowhere to be found. Panic blooms in her chest once again, but Sansa forces herself to breathe and be calm. Stranger and her nameless gelding are tied to a nearby tree, grazing peacefully, and there is a dog's head helmet near her on the grass. The Hound can't be far.

Her restless dreams have not afforded her much sleep. It is still dark. She keeps the cloak on, tying it around her shoulders when she stands. To comfort herself, she goes to pet her gelding, thinking more about names but not finding one to her liking. _Warrior_, she considers, or _Smith_. But none of the Seven have names to fit her horse. He is a shy and skinny thing, not like Stranger.

Even if she wanted to, she could not approach Stranger to scratch between his ears like she does her gelding. He is a tempermental horse, not unlike his master, and only has a liking for the Hound. He eyes her warily as she skirts around him and returns to their makeshift campsite.

After a while, the Hound emerges from the trees. His sleeve is still rolled up on his left arm and he looks mismatched wearing only one vambrace. He is limping, just a bit.

"Does it still hurt?" Her own hands do, though not terribly.

"Not so bad," he replies gruffly, taking a seat in the grass next to her and reaching for his dagger. "Rest more. We're safe enough here as anywhere else. I've set some traps. Rabbit might not be as good as pork, but you'll thank me for rabbit later when the road has fewer inns and your belly's empty. It's still a long way to Riverrun."

Sansa's heart soars. Riverrun must be where her mother is, and Robb. Her grandfather, uncle, and great-uncle as well, the Blackfish. The Hound truly does plan to take her to her family. She must wonder what will happen to him, however. His own family has belonged to the Lannisters for generations now. Sansa has no idea how Robb will receive him.

The Hound doesn't seem too concerned. He is running a stone along his dagger in firm, short strokes, making the metal chime.

"I'm sure my brother will pardon you," she says at last. "Once I tell him how you saved me."

"He won't," growls the Hound, "But I'm not planning on asking him. I'll be returning his sister to him unharmed. That's good for safe passage and a few coins at least. Then I'll find a boat and get out of this damned country."

Sansa thinks on that, her mouth a hard line. "I thought you were rescuing me, not ransoming me."

The Hound puts down his dagger and looks squarely at her. "Aye. And I'll keep you safe, little bird, just as I said. But if you think your kingly brother will let me walk free for that, then you really have nothing in your head but songs."

"Robb declared war on the south to rescue Arya and I. And... and father," she glances guiltily at the ground and her eyes stay there. "He'll be grateful."

"Little fool," the Hound chides, and resumes sharpening his dagger. "You think your brother's going to pardon me, or knight me, or make me his bloody Hand if he gets his arse on a true throne? A dog with no master is no good to anyone, and I've got no plans to bent my knee to Robb Stark."

"He can't kill you," Sansa says slowly.

"True enough, if he didn't have the whole of the North ready to do his killing for him. He'll think I turned coat for coin. Many men have done the same. So I won't disappoint him, and save us all some trouble."

Sansa knows the Hound did not save her for gold. The Lannisters have the most money in all the seven kingdoms.

"Why _did _you leave?" she asks him.

"Even a dog gets tired of being kicked," he tells her, utterly focused on his blade.

That does not explain why he brought her along as well, but Sansa dares not pry further. Regardless of his reasons, she is grateful for him. In silence, she contents herself to watch him run the stone along the dagger. It's plain, longer and thicker than the one she pulled from the Hound's leg. It fits in his hand but it would be unwieldy in her own. The Hound is larger than most men and much larger than Sansa. Her cheeks burn as she thinks about his arms on either side of her and his broad chest behind her, his breath on her ear, his words making her blood race.

When she looks again at his face, he is staring back. Sansa jumps before she realizes that he is holding out the dagger expectantly.

"You want me to have it?" she questions.

"I'll show you how to use it," promises the Hound.

She reaches for the hilt, but her fingers sting when she closes them together. The Hound notices her flinch. He puts the dagger down and turns her hands over instead, inspecting her palms. They are still pink and raw. Sansa cannot read his expression. Her heart is in her throat, beating fast.

"It doesn't hurt so badly," she assures him.

He promised to protect her from harm, but it is not as if he could slay fire with his sword. The burns stretching up his arm are worse than hers, besides, and nothing compares to the cruel burn across his face.

"We'll get some water on it," he tells her, his voice tight.

She thinks of her dream, where they were both burning. For a moment, it seems that he might kiss her in life. They are close enough that it would be easy. She cannot determine if the memory of his mouth pressed cruelly to hers is a true one or one that her dreams concocted. Sansa's eyes dart to his lips and then back to his own eyes, wavering. It is not hard to look at him now, not at all, but her own thoughts do shame her enough that she has to fight not to look away.

"You're getting bolder, little bird," the Hound chuckles. "Does my face no longer frighten you?"

"It seems I will have scars of my own soon," she answers, taking her hands away.

_Before you say anything else stupid, _says her mind, in the voice of the Hound.


	6. Chapter 6

**A Burning He Can't Escape, Chapter Six**

The Hound was right. By the time he catches and cooks the first rabbit, she is far too hungry to worry about anything but filling her belly. After several days' travel in the direction of Riverrun, rabbit is not only acceptable, but tastes better than any of the sublime dishes she ever had in King's Landing. The Hound shows her how to set the traps. She is fairly good at tying the knots correctly with her hands so accustomed to sewing. She is less good at skinning what they catch. When the Hound guts a rabbit, she can't stand to watch. Luckily, he does not try to teach her again after the first time.

During the nights, he also shows her where to stab a man with her dagger, should the need arise. Sansa finds this idea less repulsive than skinning rabbits, after the event with the singer. She pays rapt attention. She's not very fast or accurate with the knife he gave her, but he doesn't give up trying to teach her. This is more important than skinning rabbits.

Sansa's dreams persist. Every night, the Hound comes to her and every night, he kisses her and touches her with burning hands. She wakes not knowing how to alleviate the longing inside her, and watches the Hound more intently by the day. If he senses the fire inside her, he gives no indication.

Their journey is going smoothly, if slowly. The one trial they undergo is crossing the Blackwater Rush again. They lose almost an entire day getting the horses across. It is difficult, even once they find a place where the current is weak. Stranger, being the strongest of the two mounts, swims steadily. It's Sansa's little gelding that causes trouble, shying away from the deep water and jerking his head away when the Hound tries to pull him by the reins. But Sansa cannot make the rest of the journey without a horse, so they persist until the gelding is across and all four of them are soaked.

Today they are following a road. The Hound deemed it necessary. Last night, after they were finished practicing, he said to her, "We haven't got much of a choice. We need food, clothes for you if we can find them, and a good rest while we can get it."

"Won't it be dangerous?" she asked.

"We may be far enough out of the way that news has not reached this place," the Hound told her. "At any rate, we won't get by on our own all the way to Riverrun. That's the way of it. If needs be, you'll remember where to stick that knife of yours, I hope?"

With a small smile, she reached up and touched her fingers to her throat, where he'd told her a man would bleed to death if cut deep enough. The inner thigh she would remember too, and the belly. And the heart. It was easiest to think of it as a memory test, like the simple game of cards Robb would sometimes play with her, or remembering titles, words, and sigils for Septa Mordane.

"Aye, girl," the Hound approved, to her pleasure. "That'd do it."

They have yet to happen upon an inn, but merely riding on the road is a nice change. Her horse bounces less, which will mean less pain for her later, when she dismounts. Stranger has grown accustomed to sharing the road. He only nips at her gelding now when he gets neck-to-neck with him. Sansa finds she can lag slightly behind without rousing the courser's wrath.

"How close are we to Riverrun?" she asks, turning her gaze on the Hound.

He keeps his eyes on the road, but squints in thought. "Some days yet, little bird. We're near the Riverlands now. We're making for a place called the Stoney Sept."

"The late King Robert won a great battle there," Sansa says, proud to remember. "With my father and grandfather."

The Hound lets out a non-commital grunt and says nothing. Sansa holds her tongue, but her thoughts are occupied now with her Septa's old stories. The Battle of the Bells, it was called, and the late king said that it was her father, Lord Eddard, who had truly won it. Sansa's eyes prick with tears at the thought of her father, even now. She blinks them away and dares to feel hopeful. They are near the Riverlands. They cannot be too far away from her mother's birthplace, if they are headed for the place where her grandfather's forces joined the rebellion.

Stranger snorts beside her as the Hound abruptly pulls him to a stop. In confusion, Sansa does the same, holding tight to her gelding's reins. She follows the Hound's eyes to a place further along the road, and her pulse quickens. At the side of the road, there stands a man. She cannot make out his features from this far away, but he is eerily still. A shudder rolls down Sansa's spine, but she follows the Hound obediently when he nudges Stranger back into motion. It is only a man. He cannot have recognized them from this distance.

As they approach, it becomes clear why the man is unmoving. He's been burned and made into a grotesque effigy, his ravaged body completely black and supported only by a wooden stake. Like a scarecrow. With a gasp, Sansa covers her nose and mouth. The scent of charred flesh makes her gag, knowing that it is the man she smells. Fish, too. She can smell rotting fish. There is a pile of the dead creatures at the man's feet, their bellies split open. She turns her head away from the sight. The Hound swings his leg over Stranger's back and dismounts smoothly, dragging the reluctant courser along behind him.

Her eyes watering, Sansa watches him inspect the corpse. When she can bear to look no longer, she lets her gaze wander to the area beyond. It's a farm, she realizes, though the crops have been uprooted or trampled. A wagon lies broken in one of the fields. There is a small house in the distance. Even from here, she can tell that it has been burned to the ground. Only blackened posts and rubble remain of what must once have been a home. Her heart aches to think of the farmer lashed to the stake, a mottled husk. He must have had a family. She cannot bring herself to think about where they might be, left to the mercy of someone who could make such a horrible mockery of a corpse.

After a moment, the Hound comes back to her and lifts himself back into Stranger's saddle. When he speaks, his voice is harsher than she has ever heard it. "There's nothing for us here, little bird. Come now."

"How could this happen?" Sansa wonders. "Brigands? A... a hill tribe?"

_Was there no one to stop this?_ This is an injustice. This is a horror.

"This was a knight's doing," the Hound tells her gruffly.

Sansa's stomach churns, sickened. "How can you know that?"

He glances back at her sternly, his mouth a grim line. "Look away now, and come. It's growing dark."

Sansa does not hesitate to heed him. The sight of the burned man makes her skin crawl, and she is glad to ride past. Her gelding, too, is eager to move again. Still, the twisted face of the farmer is engraved on the backs of her eyelids. _He must have died in terrible pain,_ she thinks. Her thoughts wander to the Hound and the ugly scars on his face. The pain of fire put such a rage inside him, and such a fear. She cannot imagine how it must have hurt - and at the hands of someone meant to be his brother, possessed by a cruelty Sansa cannot fathom.

"That was your brother's doing." She says it as the realization strikes her.

The Hound's fingers clench into fists, and his lips tighten. "Aye, little bird."

She can hear the loathing in his words. Pity replaces her horror. Sansa chews her lips, unable to swallow her concern, though she knows it will only irritate him. He does not want her sympathies, she knows, but he has them nonetheless. She knows what betrayal feels like. She can even begin to understand his anger. She can fully understand his fear.

"What will you do?" she asks him softly.

His shoulders are stiff and his eyes are on the road again. "I'll take you home. Put it from your mind, girl. It's done."

She tries, but for her it is not so easy.


	7. Chapter 7

**A Burning He Can't Escape, Chapter Seven**

The town they stop in is a small bunch of dwellings near the river, called Stone's Throw for its proximity to the Stoney Sept. It is the Hound's wish to keep riding until they reach the city proper, but Sansa is loath to cross the Blackwater Rush again. They would have to, or travel the length of it, and the thought of more riding exhausts her. Stone's Throw boasts a small inn and stable. Despite the Hound's assurances that the beds will be only marginally better than sleeping on the ground, Sansa cannot resist the opportunity.

The inn is empty of patrons save for them, which Sansa takes as a good omen. The innkeep's wife, a busty woman called Jona, brings them food and wine at the Hound's behest and gratefully takes his coin. He keeps his face hooded and, despite his misgivings about stopping here, Sansa notices that he seems as grateful as she to taste the bread, broth, and meat. And he helps himself to as much wine as Jona is willing to pour for him.

Jona is full of questions for Sansa, and Sansa is grateful to have another woman to speak with, even if the innkeep's wife is much older than she is.

"We've not had a lot of business these past weeks," Jona tells her with regret. "The river floods now and then, and folk stick to the main roads even in the best of times. I suppose I don't need to tell you that these aren't the best of times. All sorts of unsavory types skulking about the Riverlands these days. Anyone with walls to hide behind is like to stay behind them for quite some time, I'd say. Too many wolves and lions about, and hardly enough room for the rest of us."

Sansa thinks of the burned man and his farmhouse, nothing but rubble and ash. "The roads are dangerous."

"I suppose you'd know better than I would, at that," Jona says. "Poor thing. If you like, I can fill a tub for you and you can wash off some of that dirt."

After a brief glance at the Hound, Sansa nods curtly. "I'd be very grateful."

After their meal, the Hound retires to their room but Sansa lets Jona lead her to the kitchens, where she's filled a wooden tub for her. Sansa kneels to run her fingers along the water's surface. It's cold, but clear, and much preferable to washing herself with a cloth and stream water. Her muscles ache just looking at it. It feels as if she has been riding a horse and sleeping on rocks for ages. She doesn't think she's ever been so grateful to anyone as she is to Jona.

"Thank you," she tells the innkeep's wife, who is watching her with a curious expression.

"You're welcome. Now there's a pretty smile," she says, smiling back with plump lips. "Gods be good, you remind me of my girl when you smile like that."

"Your daughter?" Sansa questions, her smile slipping. "Is she...?"

"Married," Jona tells her, and Sansa is flooded with relief. "With girls of her own and one strong boy, as well. I may still have a dress or two of hers about, if you'd like a change once you've washed up."

"I couldn't ask that of you, you've already been so kind," Sansa says quickly, but Jona interrupts her.

"Nonsense. I've no use for old clothes, and you'll need more than rags if you're headed up north. Now, I'll give you your privacy."

She is so unused to this sort of kindness that, for a moment, Sansa wonders what Jona's reasons are. _I'm being unfair_, she thinks, and rids her head of doubt.

She resolves to ask the Hound if they can give Jona more coin, for the bath and the clothes. Once Jona leaves, she slips out of her cloak and the old dress she's wearing, all the happier for Jona's offer when she sees how tight her clothes are becoming. She brought very little with her. They left so urgently, she grabbed only a few things from the top of her chest of clothes and ran. Everything she owns is now soiled and constricting. It feels good to be out of the dress and even better to lower herself into the tub and let the cold water swallow her up. She scrubs the dirt away and combs the tangles from her short hair with her fingers, surprised at how messy it has become.

When she emerges, she finds to her surprise that Jona has placed a couple of dresses on the stool by the door. She didn't hear the woman enter. Sansa selects a plain cotton dress of white and brown, lacing it together carefully. It is slightly too big for her, but nowhere near as big as the Hound's cloak. She paws her hair into order and creeps out of the kitchen. Jona is cleaning tables when Sansa finds her.

"There, now," the woman says when she sees her. "What a beauty."

"I don't know how to thank you," Sansa tells her, lowering her gaze.

"You can answer a question. That man up there, is he your father? Tell it true."

Jona's sudden scrutiny makes Sansa's pulse quicken. _Did she recognize him?_ She swallows her panic and nods her head mutely, hoping that she does not appear as frightened as she feels. Jona purses her lips, but accepts Sansa's answer.

"Very well, then," she says, resuming her work.

"May I ask you something?" Sansa clasps her hands to keep from fidgeting. "We've been riding for a very long time, and I was wondering if there was any... news?"

She cannot ask about her mother or Robb, nor her grandfather or uncle. A passing common girl like herself would have no interest in the business of Robb Stark's army or the doings of Lord Tully.

Jona eyes her for a moment before saying, "Not since Lord Hoster Tully's funeral, and that was days past. Oh, I suppose there is the wedding."

_Funeral_, Sansa thinks. Only aloud does she say, "Wedding?"

"Aye, Edmure Tully means to marry one of Walder Frey's girls. Him and his nephew and their whole host of northmen are riding for the Twins," Jona tells her.

"Oh," says Sansa, while her mind races. "Please excuse me, I'm awfully tired. Thank you again."

It is rude to leave so quickly, but her courtesies are forgotten. They are going the wrong way. She will have to tell the Hound that her mother and brother won't be found at Riverrun.

The room he bought for them is small, illuminated by candles and the moonlight coming through the window. Sansa enters expecting to find him asleep, but he is on the edge of the bed, polishing his helm with a cloth. He is out of his armor. Sansa realizes how strange it is to see him in the light without it. He gazes at her for a few moments when she enters, his eyes roving over her new dress, before looking down again.

"My mother and Robb are riding for the Crossing," she tells him. "For my uncle's wedding."

The Hound stops at that, sucks the inside of his cheek briefly, and then sets his helm aside. "Then our journey just got longer."

"You're not angry, are you?" she questions, her eyes flickering to his.

"No, little bird. There's nothing to be done for it," he replies with a tight smile. "Eager to be rid of me?"

In fact, she has been worrying what will happen when to him when they finally reach her family. "No. Are you? Eager to be rid of me, I mean."

He chuckles at that, like he does when she says something either bold or stupid. She wonders which this is.

"Take the bed, girl. I'd rather have the floor than this bloody thing."

She does, with restored gratitude. Sleep comes slowly, however, in spite of Sansa being in a real bed at last.


	8. Chapter 8

**A Burning He Can't Escape, Chapter Eight**

The green fire in the sky is as bright as the sun. Sansa's room is cast into a brilliant light. The fire should scare her, she knows, but she finds herself wishing it would creep into her window and burn her up. Her door creaks open and she turns, heart in her throat, to find herself face-to-face with the Hound. She looks him in the eyes. Past the blood and tears, she sees fire. It is not a reflection; it comes from inside him. She wants some of that fire in her.

"I'm burning," she tells him. "Help me, please. iPlease/i."

He kisses her until she cannot breathe. She gasps into his mouth. All she can taste is fire. He puts his hands on her shoulders and drags her closer, and the flames kindled between them swallow the whole room.

Sansa wakes with such a wanting inside her that it almost hurts. With a soft gasp, she sits up and pushes her blankets aside. They are far too constricting, far too hot. A small spike of panic coursing through her, she seeks out the Hound, worried that he might have heard her or guessed her dreams. He is seated on the floor with his back against the wall, his eyes closed in sleep. He is no more aware of her thoughts than he is of her racing pulse or quick breathing. In near-darkness, Sansa watches his chest rise and fall beneath his gambeson. In sleep he looks no more peaceful than he does awake. _Are his dreams like to mine?_

Her heart beats like bird wings beneath her ribs as she lowers her feet to the floor. As quietly as she can, she walks over to him. The floor is cold but none of the boards so much as creak. His breathing never falters. Sansa kneels beside him, wishing he would wake.

_You're getting bolder, little bird,_ she can hear him say.

_No,_ she thinks. _But my dreams are. They are running away with me._

In her dreams, she wants to kiss him and he obliges. In life, she is not even sure if they have ever kissed. She can remember his mouth, unyielding against hers, but she also remembers his breath in her ear and his hand on her belly, which she knows to be a dream. During her waking hours, he offers her no sign that he knows what sorts of thoughts she has. Sansa does not know what to do. Fire dreams are driving her mad.

She steels herself, willing the butterflies in her stomach to settle. She has to know it is not a dream, and the only way to be sure is to do this for herself, when she knows she is awake. She cannot wait for him to kiss her, when it might only happen in her sleep.

There is wine on his breath. She can smell it when she leans close, and feels it on her lips when he exhales.

_Growing bolder,_ she thinks, pressing her lips to his.

The Hound does not taste like fire, only wine. The touch of his lips on hers does make the surface of her skin feel hot all over, though maybe that is the rush of her own daring. Sansa's heart is pounding in her ears when she pulls away, alarmed at herself. She cannot bring herself to look at the Hound's face, in case the madness has not left her. It does not feel like she has proven anything, only fanned a flame. It takes her a moment to realize that she cannot hear him breathing. Only then do her eyes move to his to find them open. She cannot read his expression, but he is awake. Sansa goes cold.

"I'm s-"

He puts his fingers in her hair and drags their mouths together again before she can apologize. Sansa whimpers against his lips, fire flooding her body again and chasing out the cold. It is no dream. Neither of them go up in flames. This is not King's Landing, it is a tiny inn in a place called Stone's Throw, and the Hound is kissing her with the fervor of a doomed man. The hand not tangled in her hair goes to her back and guides her forward. He shifts so that she is seated squarely on his lap. Her dress is pulled indecently high but the thought is only a fleeting one in Sansa's head, chased out by overwhelming sensation and the desire for more.

The Hound skates his tongue across her lips. After a surprised pause, Sansa chases it with her own, knowing her movements to be clumsier than his. When they touch, she shudders. He is desperate, sucking at her lips and tongue when he can get at it. She is starkly aware of the hand pressing her down into him and the hardness beneath her. Her pulse hammers in her throat. Her fingers tighten into fists on his shoulders. She doesn't remember putting them there but she must have, in a desperate attempt to anchor herself. Tipping her head back, the Hound presses a kiss to her throat, where she's sure he will feel the blood rushing beneath her skin. Her lips feel bruised and over-sensitive. She is so dizzy.

His mouth leaves patches of wetness down her neck to cool in the night air. Shivers roll through her in waves. She knows this is no dream, because in her dreams she is always burning, not drowning. Now she is helpless and breathless. Everything within her is telling her to press closer to the Hound, as though they cannot be close enough. He must feel the same way. He is clutching her to him so tightly it would hurt if she had any notions of resisting.

His other hand drops lower, to her thigh. The unexpected warmth of his bare skin on hers make Sansa tremble, but it is more than desire now. Fear sparks inside her as well.

"Stop," she breathes.

He does, with the abruptness with which he once obeyed a king's command. Her hands still clutching him, Sansa sits back, breathing heavily. He is too, she is both pleased and surprised to notice. He retracts his hands, but his eyes are anchored to hers. Sansa can feel the heat in her body gather to her face. In the darkness, his face is half obscured. All she can make out is the look he is giving her, as if he wants to consume her. She wants some of that fire in her. It frightens her.

"I didn't mean to," she says softly.

The Hound eyes her for a moment before he speaks, and Sansa, through some great power of will, does not look away. "Some men would not have stopped."

She doesn't know what to say to that, because she is not sure that she wanted him to. If he had not stopped, she would not have been able to forgive him. Yet she wants more.

All she knows is that she is meant to be a lady, and this is not something that highborn girls do, no matter what they dream. She untangles herself from him and returns to her bed, feeling guilty and foolish. The Hound shifts until he is comfortable against the wall, as much as he can be. She hears him shuffling but she cannot face him.

"You've made me into something I'm not inside that pretty little head of yours, girl," he says, after a long and pregnant silence. "I warned you not to."

He is wrong. She knows who and what he is She is just beginning to realize that he is more than he cares to admit. Sansa chews her lip as she studies him. It is thrilling, the way he consumes her and she can think of nothing else. But that is also the danger. She wishes that looking at him did not make her long for him to hold her. Everything would be easier then.


	9. Chapter 9

**A Burning He Can't Escape  
**

They give Jona a few silvers for the bath, three thick leather casks full of cheap wine, some salt pork and tack for their horses. The Hound gives her more than she asks for at Sansa's behest, though he pulls a face when she asks and only grudgingly obliges.

This morning, a thick fog has enveloped the Riverlands like a shroud. The air is warm but moist, and droplets of dew cling to each blade of grass. Sansa thinks the land looks fresh this way, glistening like a painting. However she does not take much joy in the sight. The previous night is still vivid in her mind's eye, and she is too embarrassed by her own behavior to be overly concerned with the scenery. It seems like it was a dream, but she knows it was not, and in the light of day her actions seem irrecuperably brash.

Her gelding nickers amiably and nudges his nose against her hand when she makes to mount him. Sansa strokes his muzzle gratefully, happy to have a friend on this long journey. She doesn't know if she can ever look the Hound in the eyes again, and that is sure to sour his mood. He is already sullen this morning. He has been using his words sparingly and wearing a grimace that frightened the stable boy half to death. Sansa is not foolish enough to think that she isn't to blame.

He seats himself atop his impatient courser and starts trotting immediately. Sansa swings herself onto her gelding's back, uttering a quick thank-you to the stable boy before hurrying after. She catches up to the Hound in a few paces. Stranger eyes her gelding moodily when she pulls up beside him, but keeps his teeth concealed. It is progress.

"We can't follow the King's Road," the Hound says brusquely. "Too many others doing the same. Still, might be that two riders can catch up to an army on the move before they reach the Twins."

Sansa's spirits lift at that. To her surprise, she finds that tears are beginning to form in her eyes. Blinking, she turns her head away from the Hound so he will not see and casts a hopeful look to the northern horizon. Somewhere over those hills, her mother and brother wait for her. She never in her life dreamed that she would miss the North once she was rid of it, but she is looking forward to being among the people again. Not just her family, but their followers as well. Robb's host must be full of Karstarks, Howlands, and Umbers. Rough men. Loyal men. Her father's men. Sansa misses them almost as much as she misses her true family.

The Hound mistakes the meaning of her silence. "What is it, girl? Not looking forward to the wedding? I thought little birds liked pretty dresses and dancing and singing."

"I'm sure it will be lovely," Sansa replies, somewhat stiffly. She does like pretty dresses, dancing, and singing.

The Hound snorts. "Lovely? You've never met a Frey girl."

"That's a cruel thing to say."

Sansa knows better than to make fun of a lady's looks, but it seems the Hound never learned that courtesy. He didn't have a younger sister like Arya, she supposes, with a long face and mousey hair. Or a septa like Septa Mordane, to tell him when he was being discourteous.

"I could find crueler words for Freys," growls the Hound.

"And Lannisters and Starks, I'd imagine," says Sansa, her lips quirking into a small smile. "And Tullys and Arryns."

The Hound only gives her a sideways look. "And Cleganes, little bird. Especially them."

It may be some sort of warning, but to Sansa it is like they are sharing a private jape. She can almost forget what happened last night, except for the rising urge to kiss him again. It is a fortunate thing that they are mounted and well away from one another. She can still remember the hungry way his mouth closed over her own. She can still taste wine on her tongue, if she thinks on it hard enough.

She tries not to, instead fixing her eyes on less dangerous things, like the horizon.

They ride through the day, only stopping now and then to rest the horses. Sometimes the Hound leaves to make water. Sometimes it is Sansa, who swallowed her pride and resigned herself to using the woods as a privy long ago. She still blushes when she has to excuse herself, but the Hound doesn't seem to mind what she does or does not do in among the trees, so long as she's mounted up and ready to ride again when he is. They are making good time, by Sansa's reckoning, but all she remembers of the King's Road is the inside of the Queen's litter and the mishap with the direwolves. When something seems to have happened a lifetime ago, it is difficult to remember the small details, like exactly how many days passed between Winterfell and King's Landing.

Her hope bolsters the further they travel, but Sansa always fears that something will sour their luck. The wolf in her always reminds her that Winter is coming. In the end, she is right.

The Hound is tugging her gelding's reins to guide him through a wide, shallow stream when the yellow horse twists his leg. On the shore, Sansa can only watch in shock as he falls into the water, his legs giving way under his weight. The splash soaks the Hound up to his waist, even though he jumps out of the way to avoid being crushed. The nameless gelding thrashes, his bleating almost human to Sansa's ears. She watches helplessly as the Hound draws his sword, her mouth open but silent.

The Hound raises his sword above his head, and Sansa finds her voice. "You _can't_!"

He ignores her, bringing the blade down hard across the gelding's neck. His strength rivals his brother's, Sansa notes distantly, even as her whole body goes cold. She cannot look away, even as her horse is butchered before her eyes. It is blessedly quick, done in two strokes, but neither clean nor quiet. The water goes red, giving the illusion that there is more blood than truly spills. Her horse's screams reach such a pitch that Sansa has to clap her hands over her ears to block out the sound. _This isn't happening. I haven't even named him yet._

At last, the braying gives way to an impenetrable silence, thick as the fog.

With a long, loud sigh the Hound shoves his sword back into its sheath. Sansa bites her lip, her eyes stinging. She finds the strength to look at him.

"I saved him some pain, no matter what you're thinking," the Hound growls, seeing her look.

Sansa refuses to have such a conversation over the warm corpse of her horse. After a deep breath, she lifts her skirts above her ankles and crosses the stream well north of the blood. The Hound meets her, wordlessly helping her onto Stranger's back. When he mounts up behind her, Sansa feels nothing. At least the urge to kiss him is gone. She'd like to hit him, for all the good it would do her. She also feels like crying but she does neither of these things.

He can feel the tension in her shoulders. Her whole body is a slab of marble. "There isn't anything for it, little bird. Dragging an injured horse behind us the whole way to the Twins is no way to travel. Riding double is already going to slow us down. Do you want to see your family or not?"

They both know her answer, but Sansa cannot forgive him even though she sees the sense in his words. She knows he would not be behaving so nonchalantly were it Stranger dead in the water, instead of her gelding. When she says nothing, his patience disappears. Sansa hates this feeling, like she is a disobedient child rather than a companion. It only serves to fuel her spite.

"Like it or not." He tightens his grip on the reins and urges Stranger forward. "You'll have to get used to doing things you don't want to do, else life will go very hard for you, little bird."

She knows that already. She's still riding with him, after all.


	10. Chapter 10

**A Burning He Can't Escape**

Before the sun creeps over the horizon, Sansa wakes aching all over and chilled to the bone. She has been traveling for so long that she learned to ignore the pain that comes from sleeping on hard ground and riding horseback for hours, but today she doesn't have the strength to dismiss it. She hurts from neck to hip to ankle, from the raw skin on her hands to the creaky ache in her knees from sleeping in a little ball. Mostly, she hurts because she sits up and sees only Stranger hitched to a nearby tree, with no sign of her gelding, and no sign of remorse from the Hound. He is sleeping peacefully, far from the fire, one of the casks of wine empty beside him. Bitterly, she hopes he enjoyed himself last night, while her dreams were filled with blood and the smell of burning horseflesh.

Sansa eases herself from the ground. Her stomach rumbles. She's used to eating as soon as she wakes, and as they do not get to eat often, her body knows when it's due. She ignores it, disappearing between the trees. The cold of the night is biting. The farther north they travel, the colder it will be, so it should be a hopeful sign to her, but Sansa's mood is soured.

She knows better than to cry. Instead, she feels a familiar numbness settle over her as she slips on her armor. Better than the steel and leather that the Hound wears, her armor can distance her even from her own conflicting emotions. After she steels herself, everything feels a little better, or at least a little less important, but Sansa still can't bring herself to forgive the Hound for slaughtering her horse. The unfairness of it all makes her contemplate walking into the woods until they swallow her up; until the morning comes and the Hound wakes to nothing but his horse and his wine for company.

The opportunity to run away from her situation has never been hers. Not at King's Landing, obviously, but never at Winterfell either. It is an intimidating feeling, knowing there is nothing to stop her from walking until she can't anymore. Until no one remembers her and she is the ghost of a girl once called Sansa Stark, free to do whatever she pleases. Sansa finds her feet rooted into place at the thought. _I am already running away, aren't I? That's what I'm doing._

She cannot leave, of course. She doesn't even want to, not really, but it makes her feel better to imagine what the Hound would do if he realized that she had simply gotten up and left him there. _Would he care? Would he miss me? Or would he be angry only because I got away?_ Part of her, like a petulant child, wants to punish him and run. The other part remembers that this has happened before. When Lady was blamed for Nymeria's actions, her father had to butcher her to appease the queen. Sansa never thought she could forgive him, and by the time she wanted to, it was too late.

Her armor cracks. She hasn't worn it since King's Landing and it has become brittle from disuse. Sansa sinks to her knees in the dirt and puts her head in her hands. The earth is hard and cold beneath her, and it creeps its way up until she is shivering. She doesn't cry, but she doesn't have the will to do anything else either. If something were to happen to the Hound, she knows that she would not give a thought to her gelding after. She _knows_ that the Hound was right to do what he did, and quickly. But it frightened her that her father could do something so harsh as to kill her Lady and it frightens her that the Hound did not so much as flinch before killing her horse. It frightens her to think that the Hound is right about so many things, about her father. About her, sometimes.

She will not run away, and she can't afford not to forgive him, so she will stay here until she feels like going back to him. Until it isn't quite so heartbreaking to think about her poor, nameless horse.

"_Sansa_!" At the sound of her own name, she jerks her head away from her hands.

In a heartbeat the Hound's fingers are around her wrist, dragging her to her feet. His grip is so tight that she doesn't fall, the same hand that can swing a sword with such ferocity. For a moment, she thinks he must be angry with her for wandering off, and Sansa's stomach drops. He has never hurt her and she doesn't believe he will start now, but regardless she doesn't want him angry with her. When she looks at him, however, she sees not anger, but concern. _He was worried about me_, she realizes in surprise. And while her resentment might not ever fade, she forgives him then.

"I'm all right," she says quickly, her breath clouding in front of her lips. "I wasn't going anywhere."

"Damn right you weren't." His words aren't quite as stern as he means them; the fear is too fresh. "What in the seven hells are you doing?"

Sansa lowers her gaze in shame. "Nothing."

"Like hell," he says, but he releases his hold on her wrist.

She should snatch back her hand, but she doesn't. It hovers in the empty air instead, her fingers itching to grab hold of him. She thought this feeling might vanish after all he's done but it lingers still, this unbidden desire to seek him out and have him close. The Hound watches her with anticipation, each breath fogging the air. He's waiting for her to act, she knows.

What she doesn't know is what he wants. He cannot sense her thoughts or wants, no better than she can know his own. If she reaches out and touches him, will he be glad and grateful, or spiteful? There is an urge in her to test the waters, telling her that he wants her, but it cannot breach the surface. She is not ready to find out what he feels, or how far he'd go with her permission. She curls her fingers against her palm and brings it back to rest at her side.

The Hound exhales, in relief or disappointment, she will never know. "You want to leave? I won't stop you."

Sansa shakes her head. "I am leaving. With you."

He watches her for a good length of time then and she stares back, wondering if he will bridge the gap that she could not. She doesn't know what she would do.

He pivots on his heel and heads back to camp and wordlessly, she follows. When they return, she finds everything as it was, almost peaceful in the cold stillness. The ground is a dark mass and the trees are shadows stretching toward the stars. Stranger's head is dipped in sleep, his breath steaming. After so long on the road, it feels right. If it only snowed, Sansa might even feel somewhat at home. Even with sturdy walls heated by hot springs, Winterfell was always colder than the south, and certainly as cold as this burgeoning Riverlands winter.

So when the Hound returns to his makeshift sleeping roll and Sansa follows, it is not entirely truthful when she pleads, "It's cold."

She can't even see his eyes in the darkness, but she can feel his gaze nonetheless. She expects scorn - this is not something she would dare to do ordinarily, and not with someone like him. Instead, he shifts to the side and lets her curl herself into the blankets, which she does in silence. Despite everything, Sansa enjoys the heat and smell of another person beside her. He is solid and warm, and his presence is a comfort, even though it is less than intimate. She would change nothing.

"I apologize," she whispers, more to the night than to him. "For causing you to worry."

"Sleep, Sansa," he whispers back.


End file.
